


Sideways

by divisionten



Category: Doctor Who (2005), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Mystery, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divisionten/pseuds/divisionten
Summary: 1822.The year Crowley and Aziraphale discovered drinking too much absinthe in the bookshop could lead to disastrous effects. That is, letting their collective magic go haywire and Crowley waking to find himself -inside- Frankenstein. Aziraphale and Crowley swore to never again drink the stuff- at least not at the same time.Now, several months post Apocawhoops, Crowley's staring down what's clearly a large American Pekin duck in a housekeeper's uniform and is pretty sure he was the only one who reached for the Green Fairy the night prior.Pretty sure.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Dewey Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck & Scrooge McDuck & Webby Vanderquack, Tenth Doctor & Donna Noble
Comments: 28
Kudos: 68





	Sideways

**Author's Note:**

> To those wondering about infinity- good news! Chapter is almost done and will be up by the end of the weekend.
> 
> To those wondering about Motorcycle Maintenance- there'll be another chapter, soonish.
> 
> To those wondering about Shadow Partner- it's on hold a bit longer while Infinity finishes.
> 
> To those new to my work- WELCOME AND ENJOY! I love comments, so please feel free to spam me all you like.

“Owwwww,” Crowley whined aloud, rubbing at his temples. He’d had entirely too much to drink the night before, and probably passed out on Aziraphale’s settee again.

Well, **_their_** settee. 6,000 years of bad mental habits could take a while to undo.

But this new room wasn’t from Aziraphale’s home, or his for that matter, though it felt a bit like the halfway point between them. Thick carpet covered the floor, the bed was a dark mahogany, likely artisan carved. There were knickknacks throughout the room displaying not only opulence, but historical value, like the souvenirs the angel and demon had accrued over the centuries. Some of the items were likely priceless.

And then Crowley spied the photographs.

Rubbed his eyes to look at them again.

“I’ve gotta be hungover,” Crowley said in disbelief as he took one off the wall, staring dumbfounded before he flopped back on the incredibly comfortable mattress.

“Ducks.”

* * *

A few moments later, Crowley reopened his eyes, realizing he was still holding the framed photo of – of **_ducks_** in tee shirts and hoodies, and that one with the hair? feather? bow was most definitely wearing a pleated skirt.

He then finally realized the bed was the wrong size.

It wasn’t child sized- not exactly- but it wasn’t quite adult sized either. Crowley could lay on it without any limbs hanging off if he was diagonal, at least.

He must not have noticed it the first time because the ceiling was the right height, but now that he looked, his suspicions were confirmed. The door and furniture were designed for someone in the 1.5 to 1.6 meter range. Certainly larger than child size, but just small enough to be inconvenient. A top hat and cane were on and against the dresser on the far wall, respectively, and a deep burgundy smoking jacket* of silk brocade hung on a peg next to them.

* ** _Thankfully, Crowley noted with a quick hiss of his not- quite- human tongue, not actually used for smoking._**

“Okay, then. Ducks. Aziraphale or me, or both of us, likely, did something very very weird to reality last night. Better go find him and fix this.”

“ ** _Scrooge_**!” A woman’s voice in hard RP English hollered. “You never sleep in and the day you’re taking the kids to Tokyo you decide to hide in your room? Get up, before I come in there and swat you with a broom!”

“I’m not Scrooge!” Crowley answered before the words really hit his brain. What was this, Dickens? Did he get stuck in one of Aziraphale’s novels again*?

* ** _They don’t talk about that time in 1822. Both of them swore that they would never drink absinthe again. At the same time at least. One of them would need to pull the other out of the magic high._**

Crowley tested his theory. “And tell the bloody ghost of Christmas Past to stop sending me fruitcakes!”

“Oh dear,” the woman on the other side of the door bemoaned. “Do I need to get the fairy traps out of storage, Mr. McDuck?”

“Do you need to-” Crowley echoed, a bit angry but mostly surprised as he stormed to the door to open it for the mysterious woman on the other side. He was face to face with a pudgier older woman in housekeeping attire who came up roughly to his chin in height.

Crowley blinked twice, falling forward to pass out, bemoaning as he landed on the hall carpet runner, “ ** _Ducks_**.”

* * *

“I don’t know **_what_** he is. There’s nothing in the Junior Woodchuck guide on any species that looks like this.”

“Maybe Scrooge got cursed? Cursed treasure?”

“You did say his eyes were yellow, didn’t you, Granny?”

“ ** _Children_** ,” the housekeeper snapped. “I am going to get Launchpad and we will move… I’m going to assume this is your great uncle who’s gotten himself in a pickle until corrected- onto his bed. Webby, be a dear and get me the smelling salts.”

The smallest of the white feathered ducks bobbed her head, running down the hall, her dark purple pleated skirt bouncing as she ran. Scrooge and his family got into enough scrapes on their adventures that one of the bathrooms was essentially a well stocked personal infirmary. Smelling salts and a lavender cold pillow for good measure, she thought as she waddled at speed. The thud from his fall had been loud enough to hear even from the kitchen two stories down, after all.

Launchpad, after a quick text, ambled into Scrooge’s bedroom, along with two more adult white feathered ducks.

“Della, take an arm,” one of the two grunted out in a rasp.

“Everyone, on three,” the housekeeper insisted, adjusting herself for better leverage.

“Now is that count to three then lift, or lift ON three?” the tallest of them- Launchpad- asked.

“ ** _On_** three,” she replied, exasperated. “One, two, three.” She groaned, and the four adults hefted the unconscious Crowley on the bed.

“He looks like one of the Moon people, just more… pink,” the other adult woman commented. “Maybe I should wake Penny? She might know about something cursed that’d do this.”

“Nghhh,” Crowley whined, slowly coming to on his own. “Ow.”

“Uncle Scrooge, don’t move,” the raspy duck insisted. “You fell pretty hard.”

“Look, I speak every language on the planet, including a few dead ones, and I didn’t catch any of that,” Crowley whined, woozily.

“Trust me, I’m his sis and even I have trouble.”

“Ughhh.”

“Did you take a look in the mirror yet this morning?” the housekeeper asked worriedly. “And do you remember anything from last night?”

“Got a wicked hangover,” Crowley whined. “Aziraphale told me to lay off the green fairy but no, I didn’t lisssssssten…”

The housekeeper sighed as Webby and the other smaller ducks crowded around the door. “Okay, I’ll go get those fairy traps. Ah, Webby, he’s up. We need some of the fey flypaper stored in the garage, dear, looks like Scrooge got cursed by an angry fairy- **_again_**.”

“Ooh boy!” Webby said, excited, jumping back down to the front of the mansion in a hurry. She always loved hunting magical creatures.

“Is he gonna be okay?” a smaller duck in blue asked, warily. “The last time all they did was turn his feathers green for a few days.”

“And before you were hatched, they turned him into a donkey for a week,” the housekeeper said with a small grin. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s Scrooge. He always pulls through. Now get. I’m sure once he’s fully conscious he’ll be throwing a fit.”

“Oi. I can hear you,” Crowley said, breathing in slowly through his nose and out through his mouth. He was holding off opening his eyes, if only for a few more moments. He had a feeling he’d already know what he’d see when he did. He briefly wondered if he should air out his wings when he sat up, if that would scare them more or less than a hairy ape-presenting person in a world full of sapient waterfowl.

Aziraphale was going to have a field day when he got out of this magic-induced book hallucination. Crowley smirked, trying to remember the angel’s collection and if he knew which book he even was in. Wasn’t one he remembered reading or was read to, that’s for sure. 

“I hate to burst all of your bubbles,” he finally said, as he was ready to face whoever was still in the room with him. “But my name’s Crowley.”

Slowly, he blinked open his eyes. There was the housekeeper from before, only showing the tiniest bit of surprise on her face from the revelation. Stuff British upper lip, that was for certain.

The other three were an equally tall and impressively well built mallard wearing what Crowley could only describe as World War Two flying gear. Then, there were two smaller, but still seemingly adult ducks, presenting roughly male (black Navy style sailor’s shirt and white hat), and female (in flight gear like the larger male, with one metal foot from the knee down).

 ** _Okay. This was a more modern book, at least post-second World War_** , Crowley thought to himself. **_Maybe one of Adam’s additions. Probably one of Adam’s._**

He wasn’t going to be the person to tell them that they were just fictional characters, but he did need to see the end of the story to get out if it was anything like last time around.

“Sorry,” he said with a small smile and a shrug. “I’m not Scrooge, and I don’t have the slightest idea who he is.”

“You think Scrooge forgot his memory?” the larger pilot stage-whispered so loudly it might as well have been normal speech.

Crowley pressed his fingers between his eyes. “Given the photos and the room I’m in, Scrooge is the older guy in the top hat right? I can promise you, I’m really not him.” Crowley rolled his shoulders, about to pull his wings out of the ether when he noticed a few photos on the far wall had animals other than ducks in them. Sapient, clothing-wearing animals.

With a thought, Crowley pooled himself on the bed as a snake, coiling up with only the last half meter poking out to look at the group. “See? Snake. Not duck.”

None of them seemed phased, so that was a start.

“Oh my,” the housekeeper finally uttered. “This begs a bigger question- where’s Mr. McDuck, then?”

* * *

“So no fairies?” Webby whined as she pushed a piece of pancake around her plate.

“There might be fairies,” Crowley said, back to a humanoid form, rolling a fork between his fingers cramped in a nice bit just slightly too small chair. “Haven’t ruled that out yet. I don’t know how I got here, or how you all lost your uncle.”

“What kind of animal are you, anyway?” the one in red asked, flipping through a book on the table. Crowley peered over at it, seeing everything documented from mole-people to literal gods. With a sigh, he flipped the chair back sideways and let his wings loose.

“Whoa,” the kids all said.

“Angel?” the raspy one asked. Donald. Crowley wished they had name tags until he could remember them all. The red one was… Louie? No. Huey.

“Seen one before?”

“Yeah, but not with moon-people features,” one of the women at the table grunted. She looked the most human, though her skin was an ashen grey color. Penumbra, Della’s alien (?) friend, Della being the pilot woman and Donald’s twin sister, and wow.

Too many people.

“So can you shape shift in general or do you just swap between moon-person with wings and snake?” Huey asked, scribbling away in his book.

“I can in general, yeah, but my two main forms are this and the snake one. I’m guessing me walking outside looking like this is going to get some stares?”

Mz. Beakley, the older-woman housekeeper nodded. “And I assume being a snake isn’t exactly convenient.”

“Arms are useful, yeah,” Crowley rolled his eyes. It was odd, going so long without his sunglasses. Especially since his eyes didn’t phase any of them. It was actually refreshing.

“Oh, duh,” Crowley muttered, before shrinking himself about half a meter in size as he folded his wings back in the ether. Now everything fit much better. “I can change my shape or size. No big deal, really.”

“Ohhhhh, man that would be so useful,” Louie- the one in a green hoodie- said as he smirked into his eggs. Crowley liked this one already.

“What, looking into burglary, kid?” Crowley laughed out.

“Not… exactly…” he replied, looking down and away.

“Trust me, it’ll always come to bite you in the aaaa-tailfeathers,” Crowley said, course correcting his cursing. The kids were ten, eleven at the oldest. Give them another year of innocence, at least. “I mean, I could make myself look like you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Crowley said, shoving some food in his mouth. He didn’t need to eat, but not doing so would be weird. And he remembered reading once that fat helped digest liquor. And he needed all the help there he could.

“Probably for the best,” Mz. Beakley stated, before frowning. “Can you change species in general or can you look like someone specifically, Crowley?”

“I mean… if I wanted to, I could mimic someone else. Why? You need me to fill in as Scrooge till we figure out where he’s been?”

Della brightened. “Oh, actually. That’s an awesome idea. Uncle Scrooge… uh. He’s got. Um.”

“Enemies,” Mz. Beakley finished for her. “It’s entirely possible someone forced the two of you to swap. Dimensions, time periods, continents, I don’t know yet. If Scrooge were out and walking around doing what he normally does, well.”

“The person who did this to us would try something drastic, thinking they f- they screwed up.”

Internally, Crowley smiled. This sounded exactly like a book plot, and a fun one at that. He’d remind Aziraphale to stock some more YA when he was done. Might even convince him to get some comics, if he was in a gambling mood. He could play along with this.

Crowley nodded as he downed some juice. “Yeah, sure. I can play along.”

The entire table stared at him. “That easily?” Penumbra asked. “Like, you don’t know any of us.”

“You don’t know me, either,” Crowley said with a shrug, closing his eyes to concentrate. “How’s this?”

“Face is a little off, Crowley,” Mz. Beakley said as Crowley re-opened his eyes. “Let me get a photograph.”

“Already on it,” the third triplet insisted. The one in the two layered blue shirts- Dewey- smiled, holding out a cell phone.

“Someone else got a phone?” Crowley asked as he looked at the photo on the screen. “Selfie camera up.”

Huey flipped his phone to face Crowley and the demon twitched his nose- no, beak, now, as he adjusted the face. Older, feathers a little mottled around the eyes, with long ones by the edges of his beak that almost looked like mutton chops. “Better?”

“Whoa,” the four kids said in unison.

“Now, anyone have a video? Answering machine? I can fix my voice, too.”

“No need, Scrooge,” Mz. Barkley said with a bit of a snort. “The only difference between you two is his Scottish accent is a bit stronger.”

“You must be jokin’,” Crowley said, loosening his grip on his vowels a little.

The kids gasped.

“Your uncle cannot seriously be a duck version of me,” Crowley whined out when Webby ran around to push her own phone in his face and pressed play on a video.

“Och, ye bairns! You are all cheatin’ at hide and seek! Do this again and I take out the camouflage cape ‘o mine and I’ll be invisible!”

Crowley blinked, shocked. “The bugger is _**me**_ ,” he said slowly. “I don’t just mean the voice.”

Crowley watched, a mix of horrified and intrigued. Scrooge walked more evenly than Crowley did- it came with the territory of shoving a former celestial snake in a body with legs, darn it- but the rest of the mannerisms were his. He knew. He’d seen Aziraphale use them a few times when they’d swapped bodies, first to get their former employers off their backs and later because it was just fun chaos sometimes.

Crowley frowned, an odd feeling with a beak. Suddenly, the idea that he was in one of the books in the shop was distinctly less likely, or, if he were, less lighthearted in nature.

“I think Mz. Beakley is right. I think Scrooge and I may have swapped places. Oh f- oh dear, I hope Aziraphale helps him hide. And I’ve got my share of enemies, too. Dunno. Might be that someone over here swapped us, or someone on my side. Either way, let’s go with your idea. I’ll pretend to be Scrooge, looks like it might be easy. And I’ll let myself be bait. It’s the best idea we have right now.”

“I hope Uncle Scrooge is okay,” Donald sighed. Crowley was actually starting to dissect the man’s horrible rasp. “Both Della and I have been separated from the family before. I don’t know how well he’d do on his own.”

“If he’s anything like me, and I’d stake money on that,” Crowley said, adjusting the tails on his smoking jacket he’d miracled on himself when he’d changed shape, “he’ll be fine. Swearing up a storm, yeah, but fine.”

Xxx

“Och, my aching… oooooowwww…”

Scrooge blinked, a face full of metal grate in front of him. Slowly, he shifted, rolling his neck and and pushing himself upright. He was inside… something. A factory perhaps? The metal walls were windowless and the center of the room contained only a large pillar of dials and levers and a column of light.

The room hummed warmly as he shook the last of the cotton from his brain.

“You alright there, Spaceman?” a woman’s voice hollered. Scrooge recognized the accent in theory but not practice.

Oh. _**London**_.

“Och, lassie, give me three shakes of a lamb’s tail, I feel like I’ve been hit by a lorry.”

“And kicked into Scotland, no less. You okay there, Doctor?”

“I’m just fine, lass, and wait, Doctor? I’ve got my share of advanced degrees over the centuries but I’m no doctor, medical or otherwise.”

Scrooge heard footsteps of a heeled boot on metal before coming face to face with a strange looking creature- pale, hair and featherless, save a shock of reddish plumage on the top of the head, and wearing a purple wrapover blouse and jeans.

“Talking duck!” she said, more just confused than surprised.

“Och, and you’re a talking.. I don’t know actually,” Scrooge replied, hauling himself upright, realizing he was in little more than a sleeping shirt. “Sorry about that lass. Lass is correct, yes? Or no?”

“Lass nothing, you freeloading fowl. That’s _**Donna Noble**_ to you!”

* * *

“Owwwwww.”

“Oh, Crowley, what did I say about absinthe?”

“Don’t?” the groggy man on Aziraphale’s sofa asked, not entirely all there yet. “Had some terrible absinthe in the 1500’s I did. Swore off any alcohol for at least two hundred years I think.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “More like two weeks. Sober up, dear boy, we don’t need another 1822 incident.”

“1822. As far as years go, not too bad, really.”

“No, it wasn’t. I’m making hot scones with cream, if you actually want to eat this morning. Oh, love the hair, by the way. Always thought you’d look good as a brunette. That just a mood swing or planning on keeping it a while?”

“What, did I regenerate?” The Doctor asked, suddenly panicked. “Do you have a mirror? I need some food stat. Something… fish fingers? No, that’s rubbish.”

“Crowley, calm down!”

In a moment, the Doctor felt a wave of bliss wash over him like a tidal wave. He couldn’t do much of anything except flop backwards and let it happen.

“Drugs…” he muttered, worried. Drugs were never a good sign, ever.

“Too much?” Aziraphale asked worriedly, and suddenly the overwhelming feeling of love washed away.

“Very entirely too much,” the Doctor whined, before bolting upright. “Where’s Donna?!”

“Donna?” Aziraphale asked, confused, before looking at the man on the couch more closely. “You’re not Crowley.” His voice was firm but not angry.

“And you’re not Donna, and this isn’t the TARDIS. I… oh oh no. Do I date you in the future? I’ve gotten timelines mixed up before.”

Aziraphale looked at him, confused. “You’re not human,” he said simply.

“That makes part of this easier and… whoa. You aren’t either, are you? Not alien, no, just. Old. Very old. Not meant as a diss, by the way. You’ve aged well, yeah.”

Aziraphale softened a little. “Let me go get those scones. Tea or coffee, my alien stowaway?”

“Cof- no, tea. Tea. Milk and like ten sugars. Gotta get these grey cells firing.”

Aziraphale nodded. “You and me both.”


End file.
